


ABLATION

by bravechicken



Category: TMNT (2007), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles (TV 2003), Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles - All Media Types
Genre: BAMF Michelangelo (TMNT), Gen, Hurt Michelangelo (TMNT), Michelangelo (TMNT)-centric, Protective Donatello (TMNT), Protective Raphael
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 13:28:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,012
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19442401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravechicken/pseuds/bravechicken
Summary: The entire family must pull together when the youngest of the four is injured beyond repair. Plenty of angst, fluff, and even light-hearted humor. Watch as Michelangelo does the impossible thanks to the helping hands of Don, Raph, and Leo. Ablation: Removal of a body part and/or its function by way of surgery, morbid process or traumatic occurrence. Mentions of SAINW only.





	1. Chapter 1

**ABLATION.**

* * *

The ear-splitting scrapes of steel on steel filled the nights air as the four fearsome warriors fought to the finish in yet another unexpected battle. Since their time as teenagers, the four turtles would often patrol the New York rooftops, doing their part in diminishing petty crime and saving the world on far more than one occasion. Their nightly task one of the few staples in their rather lofty lives. It seems, despite their fierce effort for peace and prosperity, life fancies the dark tunnels and steep drops as opposed to the speedy flat-zones of the, comparatively, childish rides. As far as metaphors were concerned.

It has been three years since the death of their father and sensei. Though their hearts will never be whole without the incense-filled chasm now forged into their hearts; they have learned to live without him- always honoring his teachings and his memory. If anything, their bonds have grown closer, their allegiance much stronger now that a member has been removed.

So life carried on, and with it the ceaseless script that composed the rather unconventional life of four brothers.

With the mindset of monotony, the fight drawled on. It was the usual horde of foot ninja, their numbers an attempt at garnering enough brain cells for a mildly successful barrage. Yet, as usual, it was only cause for a slight appearance of weariness as far as the turtles were perturbed. That is, until the odds transposed. Typical.

The exhaustion was just setting in when a new wave of Foot appeared, and wherever the flying monkeys go- so goes the wicked witch herself. Karai stood in what was likely to appear as a stoic pose, surveying the scene before her from a birds eye view. Apparently the loss of her father had an adverse effect, seeing as she was now hell bent on revenge, something of which she masked in the flowery phrase of 'restoring honor'. Pah- as if honor ever packaged itself to the negative.

However, the greater power was selfish that night. It seems evil overthrew the triumph of good, for the vendetta was about to start anew- and as unpredictably as it always seems to be.

A venomous smirk adorned her face, her stride laced with arsenic confidence.

All four turtles were fighting valiantly, each immersed in the dodging and retaliating that is typical of fights. Yet one turtle was unfortunate enough to catch sight of the leader's scrutiny, his mouth already declaring the news to the remaining portion of his team. With a signal to the army of Foot behind her, the subservient ninjas ran forth to further solidify the abstract wall separating the brothers from each other.

Lazily claiming a defensive stance, Karai nodded towards the orange-banded turtle, her tone all but begging him to charge. And, being the impatient turtle he was, did just so with a breathy snarl of irritation.

For Michelangelo's part, he fought ferociously. Finally displaying the sheer amount of potential he contained. It had been a long night, and the young turtle wanted nothing more than to crawl into bed when Karai, of all creatures, just had to appear in what _could_ have been a quick fight. The majority of his attacks made contact, the sheer speed and spectacular improvising working to his full advantage in dodging the swift and deadly swings of her blade.

Raphael, currently fighting a good ten or so Foot, glanced over to his baby brother-the sight inciting a shocked expression as Mike sent a rather powerful kick to Karai's chest, causing her to stumble back a step or two.

His view was suddenly cut off as the fight beckoned for his attention. An action that left a churning of anxiety deep within his stomach. Of course, that particular feeling didn't last too long as his attention was again called to the ever-growing amount of Foot flooding forth toward the three eldest turtles. Until, of course, tragedy struck.

Michelangelo was beginning to grow weary. Heck, he was weary almost instantly. Afterall, this was Karai he was fighting, heir to the Shredder himself. Karai, being the one track mind she was, noticed this instantly and prepared to gain the upperhand- a leverage that she acquired with extreme efficiency. Now on the defense, Michelangelo began to dodge more fervently than before- the tails of his bandana catching on her blade multiple times. His mind reeled for a way out, eyes tracing the water tower to his right. Its been done before. But maybe, just maybe it could work. Leaping away from the open space, Michelangelo flipped himself onto the first wrung of the ladder, knowing full well how desperate the action was.

Perhaps it was the bitter irony of the memories of her father's first defeat. The humiliation, the utter degradation she felt that this _insignificant turtle_ would even _propose_ such an idea. Like poets to a sonnet- she snapped.

Deleterious to say the least. With a rage-filled roar, Karai hurled her katana at the stunned turtle, the tip imbedding itself in his left arm, pinning him to the tower. Clearly not satisfied with such _superficial_ injuries, Karai launched herself forward, ready to seal the proverbial deal.

Stomping to the cemented turtle, Karai grabbed hold of her weapon, allowing the motion to jar Michelangelo's injury. Noticing the brave front being built brick by brick, Karai thrust the sword further into the water tower, reveling in the sickening squish and the muffled screams as the youngest turtle fought down the screeches of anguish. Forcing his lips into a grim smile, Michelangelo wriggled against the blade, a vain attempt to wrench free. His voice, soft and laden with pain, uttered a quiet quip as his final defense, "You'll lose, Karai... people like you, they always lose. In fact- you've already lost."

She might have replied verbally. In fact, she probably did. Her voice laced with so much venom a gorgon would scarce tell the difference between her and Medusa. But its not what she says next, no. Nothing could top the consequent action.

A gut wrenching wail penetrated the suddenly stale night air. This wasn't so foreign of course, considering the life both parties lead, however this particular scream held so much agony Raphael actually paused mid-swing to look leftward. A reaction the proceedings of which will forever be inscribed into his memory.

Karai, katana in hand, stood over the writhing turtle, her eyes drifting to the green lump laying a few feet away. A twisted sneer appeared on her face as she observed the twitching appendage, the nerves frenzied and seizing in animated spasms. Her gaze so dark and focused, one could argue she was still in battle; her mind warring within itself as small memories of a loose alliance dredged their way to surface. Her haze so thick, she almost didn't notice the remaining three turtles sprinting towards her in time. Snapping her eyes to what remained of the Foot, she signaled for retreat. It was a successful night, she had broken them. They all knew it. Like a hunter to her prey- she would return to finish the job in due time. A lofty smile on her blood-splattered face, she vanished into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've got fanart of this on tumblr here: https://www.tumblr.com/blog/littlewheatart  
> And I'm on instagram as @littlewheatart


	2. Chapter 2

_I haven't slept for days._ Rubbing my clammy eyes, I sit and stare at nothing in particular, a quiet snort escapes the dry cavern of my mouth, its deep and pitiful moan slipping through the stagnant air as I amuse myself at how deep the irony an innocent conjunctive could play. Four days, its been four days.

"Was that a chuckle I heard?"

"Hm?" I mumble intelligently as my brain struggles to comprehend. As time stretches on, I can feel my face begin to contort into an expression of sheer confusion until the words slowly fade into my thoughts and I decipher each one accordingly. _Humor. Ah- its Mikey…Mikey._ "Wassa sneeze." I mumble, the syllables slurring together and mixed in with the palpable gravelly drawl my voice croaks, the resulting sound is nearly inaudible and undiscerning as ever.

Only a disarming grin plastered across his face, letting me know there was nothing wrong with laughter. _Laughter- HA! It may be here now but I know, I_ know _it won't last._

Suddenly the world is spinning- I grab my head, imploring the queasy feeling to disappear as quickly as it enveloped my senses. Yet on the outside my pain filled expression is merely an irritated twist on my normally contemplative face, the hand far from abnormal, as far as my brothers were concerned. As the nauseousness slowly ebbs away, I take in the sorry sight of my younger brother.

His face is contorted in concern, his hand still firmly latched onto the leather office chair of which I currently reside. He continues to stare, his gaze disconcerted and pained, as my lips fail to create the words, _sentences,_ I desperately wish to convey. This look, so foreign on the effervescent turtle. _Then again,_ my mind cruelly quips, _he's usually supposed to have two arms as well._

I watch as his grip slackens and his shoulders, previously raised, began to slump lower and lower as his posture _and his optimism- his hope_ quickly fall. Seeing my brother, my _only little_ brother struggle with the right words, I reprimand myself- fighting to say anything, fighting for resolve- fighting, for the strength, the will power, the _care_ to just _say_ something, anything- _everything._ Hesitantly and maybe even nervously, his arm retreats from the chair to the back of his neck. With what I assume was meant to be a nonchalant shrug, _a look he couldn't quite pull off right now,_ he opens his mouth, " Look, Donny…I…I really appreciate all the…work… you've been doing for me this past week, but, I'm _fine,_ okay? I know I might look a little… _different_ , but its still _me_ , bro. If…if anything, you're the one that looks like he got his arm chopped off. I mean, you're acting like it."

I must have flinched because I could see the hurt fill his eyes as he took a slow step back, fight or flight kicking in as his newfound insecurities arose to the surface. My mouth opens as I watch him take a second step back, my tongue moves as he takes a third and then I hesitate and its all over by then. I was too late, _again._ I don't even blink as he walks through the doorway, my tired eyes begin to mimic the Sahara as he stops, mere inches from the threshold.

"Just get some sleep, Donny."

There are pin pricks and an angry warmth spreading throughout as my eyes, opposite of the coldness in my baby brother's voice, beg for moisture to ease their suffering.

So I give in and I blink, just missing what I assume to be an accidental bump with the doorframe as it jars his… _nub._ He winces so vividly it would almost be comical except for the fact it simply _isn't._ I can hear his breath hitch as he seethes over the au courant pain . Everything inside me wants to comfort him, hug him- tell him lies and promises and _hell_ I'd buy him a _pony_ if only it would make up for the _pain._ Not just his injury- _at what point does an injury become a disability?-_ but the emotional rift I am _single-handedly_ causing between us, and in his time of need.

I swallow hard, trying to hold down the bile that suddenly wants to pour from my mouth as the guilt and the wretched realization of what I am doing comes down full force. The utter _shame. What would Master Splinter think of me? How can I do this to him, how can I be so weak?_

And it feels like days pass as he slowly walks away, his only hand gripping his plastron, a new habit he seems to have after… _after it._

Then time sped up, back to its normal rush. I sigh dejectedly and turn back around, preparing myself for the long and lonely night five.

* * *

A loud thud sounds- cracking the silence that loomed around the quiet lab- the sound waves themselves rippling through the bleary eyed and rather startled turtle. His disheveled mask hung loosely around his neck, still stained with drops of blood he was always too exhausted to even _care_ , much less _clean_.

Raphael was _beyond_ angry. He was _fuming._

"Just what 'da _shell_ do ya think yer doin!"

Bleary eyes gazed into enraged and red-framed ones, each trying to comprehend the other through sheer scrutiny.

Relenting far quicker than he wished, Don couldn't help but look down. Holding Raphael's glare left him feeling rather unveiled, as if the red-banded terrapin could see into his guilty conscience.

With the swift achievement of his trump, Raph continued, "Ya realize the past half hour was spent listenin' to how upset Mikey is, huh? And not even 'bout his arm, nah- ya'd think in a situation like this the kid could worry 'bout the fact that his ARM IS GONE! But no! Don, I dunno what's gotten inta ya- but ya better snap the hell out of it 'cuz we need ya, Donny. Mikey- Mikey needs ya now more than eveh." With a furious rub to the back of his head, Raph spun around, pacing as his anger became too much to handle. During this time, Don merely stared wide-eyed, tears threatening to jump ship.

Time seemed to be ticking at the speed of sound, only beginning to slow as Raph once again locked eyes with Donatello, "Don. You know what Mikey thinks when you don't respond the way ya do... he tol' me ya don't see him as an...as equal anymore, Don. He feels like ya think less of him because there's actually _less_ of him now. Tol' me the reason he thinks yer ignorin' him is 'cuz ya don't think he's yer brother anymore. Are you listenin' to me, Don? He thinks that because he lost his arm in battle, he lost his honor. Are ya listenin', Don? Why ya doin this?! ANSWER ME! Why!"

The flood gates opened.

Sobs of remorse wracked his body, each with the mighty force of a hurricane, and with every deplorable wail a new wave of despicable sorrow rushed over the prone turtle. Suddenly desperate for stability, his hand latched onto the table-top before him, his head declined in a miserable droop, his eyes clenched shut- suddenly too fearful to contain the treachery his actions had conveyed.

A grunt of antipathy was his only adverse comfort.

His gaze fixated on the chaotic wires intricately woven among the various furnishings and hardware that contrived the lab, his one haven. One of immense solitude.

"When ya get back from yer guilt trip, visit Mike. I'm sure he'd at least like to be _acknowledged_ by ya."

And as that lonesome silence engulfed his previous _sanctuary,_ atonement became essential.

* * *

It took more strength than he would care to admit, but as the air's silence turned into a static roar, the vision of the bleak and desolate scam of a future shattered what little remained of his morose attitude. A mere sough escaping his slackened mouth, as the purple-clad turtle, his resolve amplifying with step after weighty step towards the newly unfamiliar exit.

Apprehension leaped about, its bellows and jests bubbling forth in a jumble of sneers and obscenities. _Damn, I really screwed this up._ His body began to fall forward, as if the admittance of omission itself could thrust the weary terrapin to the fiery pits of hell. A steadying hand latches onto the icy walls. Looking forward he sees Leonardo- open book in hand- his eyes inscrutable as he merely points an arm in the necessary direction. His hand retracts- the sounds of Raphael's frustration flowing forth in an array of grunts and thuds. _  
_

_One step. Then another. Another after that._

And suddenly the door is right there and with it, a new surge of fear. _They say the greatest fear of all is a fear of the unknown._ A calming breath. The shrill sound of flesh on wood. _One beat of silence. Two-_

"It's open!" Michelangelo's conciliatory response sounded from within. _He's my brother, not a stranger- so why is it so hard to enter?_ One final breath. His hand grabs hold of the handle. _Inhale._ A sharp twist of the wrist. _Exhale._ The quiet creak of the beaten frame stings as though the sound itself aimed arrows towards his chest. The air a gale of its own.

A wistful smile appeared on the older turtle's face at the site of his little brother sitting upside down on his bed, not even bothering to look up from his doodle, "Dude, I think I figured out how to work the controller with one hand, we should-"

Hand behind his head, Don claimed a spot on the mattress adjacent to a rather stunned Michelangelo. "Don." Mike breathed, his voice suddenly hoarse; inciting a sheepish grin.

"You finally make your own bail, eh, officer?" _A joke, to cover his bluff. His hand gives away the nervousness he_ feels,Don notes as Mike twists his fingers about, _like his eyes didn't already give it away._

"Look, Mikey, I want to apologize." _Cut to the chase. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush._ A sigh, heavy with the weight of the world. _Here goes._

"Mike, I- shell, Mikey- I never should have ignored you- not ever and especially not now. I'm sorry I wasn't there for you." Dons voice becoming that of a whisper by the very end. His eyes were downcast- too ashamed to look into his brothers cerulean eyes. A beat of silence, its heavy bars slowly suffocating the guilty turtle. An analogue clock perched above the framework ciphering off the seconds- its sound reminding him of the clanking of chains as another link is formed one after the other. _Tick. Tock. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tock._

_Tell him. Just, tell him the truth- admit to your fear, you coward!_

The sound amplified, murmurs engulfed his senses all around. He simply stared at the clock.

_Tick. Talk. Tick. Scared. Tick. Weak. Tick. COWARD!_

"-on! Donny!" Confused azure eyes met with frightened amber. Immediately the contact was broken, Donatello regarding the scene that, to him, was so sudden in its appearance. Scanning about, his senses slowly began to restore themselves. The air, stagnant but breathable. Silence, awkward but lift-able. Michelangelo's hand clasped tightly on his left shoulder, _Michelangelo!_ The realization jarred his mind into a function-able state, the action inducing a rather startled response. His body jerked back as a tree to a typhoon, the gesture wrenching himself from the lax grip of his younger brother.

Now fully aware, Don could only watch in horror, his mouth agape, as Michelangelo abruptly stood with eyes wide. His right hand retracted to the back of his head, his step an obvious pace as he released some of his emotional turmoil upon the tails of his mask.

 _"_ Jeez, Don, I knew it was bad," he said, his voice a resigned mutter, "Jus' didn't think it was _this_ bad."

 _He's so lost,_ Don discovered. _He's been strong for too long._

Suddenly, the orange-clad turtle stiffened, his shell facing his brother as he murmured words spoken so innocently. His fear so tangible even through the brave-front, "You hate me, don't you? Because...because I'm...different, now."

Don was surprised the resulting shatter wasn't heard as his heart crumbled at the forlorn words. Eyes impassioned, Don spoke with a new found strength, his first concise words in days, "Michelangelo. _Sit._ " And he did. So abruptly, so obediently; as though expecting some kind of lashing. _  
_

A deep breathe and he was ready. "Mikey, I _don't_ hate you. I could _never_ hate you. I-" he wanted to continue. He needed to, but these things aren't scripted. Its in these crucial moments where he realizes the sheer magnitude of responsibility being an elder brother entails. _Then its decided. I tell him._

"Mikey, do you remember a couple years ago, when the fiasco between Drako and inter-dimensional travel occurred?" A curious nod of the head, eyes hanging on every word. _Such trust._ _  
_

And so he continued, explaining the experience as vividly as he himself remembered. Michelangelo listening with an intensity usually reserved for the concentration necessary in battle. Through the rehashing of the abhorrent dismay in such a fallen world. The disturbing changes in every aspect of his brothers- their odious deaths. As Donatello's tale drew to a close, he hung his head. Tears clouding his vision.

The tugging of his mask was the only preparation as Don soon found himself engulfed in a tight hug. Granted, it wasn't as strong as usual, the lack of pressure on one side of his body making for a rather delicate tone. Time lost all meaning as the embrace was both long and short. Silence. Strong and comfortable consumed the two, each filing this moment within the vast confines of their memories.

"You know, its funny."

"Nothing about this is funny, Mike."

"Funny meaning ironic, Don." Mike amended, leaning a little more on his brothers adjacent shell, "If losing my arm caused you to withdraw from us, you'd be following the path of dark Donatello."

"Mike, you better have a good point for this." Don threatened, his smirk negating his tone.

"You had the control the entire time. It was a mind thing, y'know?"

Pondering this, the older turtle hummed in agreement, "Touche."

And like the cycles of the seasons or the sequence of the rains, the two were content. Trials are inevitable; we all have our scars as proof. In the end, what matters is how we grow from them.

"Besides, having two arms was getting a bit monotonous, anyways."

"Too soon, Mike. Too soon."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment?


	3. Chapter 3

The low murmur of a newscast long forgotten dashed about in varying decibels and pitches as its dancing light illuminated a softly snoring turtle. His mask draped around his neck in loose, red folds. No other sounds penetrated the sheen of the early morning silence, save for the barely audible scuffles of a ' _sneaking_ ' turtle in orange. Of course, stealth was leagues away from the small turtle's mind as he made his way to the kitchen; his sole goal composed simply of soothing tea to comfort him for just a moment. Glancing to his left he noticed the exhausted form of his red-banded brother strewn lazily along the couch.

Raph had taken to snoozing on the couch ever since Michelangelo's accident after he noticed the unhealthy habit of insomnia overshadowing the younger blue orbs. Of course, Raphael knew to make light of it, or at least to act as such. Sixteen years of living with his brother had taught him the meaning of a 'white lie'. He had his 'cover stories', his reasons to stay up late at night, each ranging from excuse to flimsy excuse. However it seemed the truth of the situation was of mutual knowledge.

And so, with a more silent step, Michelangelo continued past; his thoughts taking over once more. However, his legs betrayed his motives as they unconsciously moved a step too close to the couch causing what little was left of his arm to bump into the offending furniture, eliciting a pained hiss as an annoyingly painful numbness shot waves of pain through the tired muscles yet to heal.

Raph, of course, was on his feet in an instant, his sand-crusted eyes scanning the room with bleary alarm. His eyes quickly caught sight of Michelangelo who rolled his eyes and gestured indignantly toward the sofa between them. Raph froze for merely a moment, his brain putting two and two together to create a whole scene, his gaze softening as realization set in.

"At ease, bro." Mike said with a chuckle, continuing his journey towards the kitchen, "Just midnight snacking it."

Seeing straight through his little brother's facade, he trailed Mike to the kitchen. Deciding to play it off as nonchalant, Mike quickly grabbed two glasses. Raph's eyes traced his brother's every move as he searched the pantry, a look of confusion adorning his face. Mike, taking note of this, grinned as he let out a happy hum, snatching a blue package with his good hand and tossing it onto the table in the same fluid motion.

With his smile on the verge of one-hundred watt, Mike walked over to the refrigerator revealing a carton of milk. Cerulean eyes met hazel all but imploring the elder to join.

When thirty seconds had passed and still Raph hadn't taken a seat, Mike grabbed the package with his good arm. Gripping the lip of the seal, he tugged as hard as he could. The resulting crash jarring the red-clad turtle from his astute concentration. A pitiful groan emanated from the younger turtle as he quickly stood to retrieve the previously air-borne package. "Guess that's another thing to work on." he mumbled in a miserable whisper, his eyes downcast as he handed his brother the airtight burden.

Timidly, Raph grabbed hold of the package, opening it with an impossibly loud crinkle.

"Takes two hands, I guess." Mike said, tittering nervously as he melted into the worn seat.

The sudden guilt that rushed over Raphael left him speechless, his eyes boring into the navy wrap.

"Oreos, Raphie-boy. Nothing to be afraid of. Now sit." Mike said, completely ignoring the elephant sat dead-center within the room. Raph, far too exhausted to fight the sudden change of topic, logged the comment away for another time.

"Ya realize I hate that nickname, _Michelangelo_." Raph sneered as he reluctantly sat down.

"Oh, we're playing that game, huh, _Raphael_." Mikey said with a triumphant grin.

"Jus' pass the package ovah here, kay, doofus?"

A comfortable silence engulfed the small kitchen as the two brothers devoured their snack, each lost in their own thoughts. The only sound being the quiet dunk of a drowning Oreo as Mikey inhaled one of the three sleeves.

"Ya don't eat 'em right." Raph grunted as Mike, once again, plopped two cookies in the glass of milk, thoroughly saturating them with the nourishing drink.

"Whaddaya mean?" the younger replied, a mock innocence to his tone.

"I mean," Raph admonished whilst grabbing another cookie, "Yer s'posed 'ta twist both sides like so. Then ya lick off all the icing, plop in the gross cookie part for extra flavor and enjoy." finishing his lesson with an example.

When silence once again pervaded the room, Raphael knew something was amiss. After all, Hamato Michelangelo never gave up an opportunity to razz his second-eldest brother.

"So what's eatin', ya, Mike?"

Silence. When his eyes finally arose they were red-rimmed and couldn't quite hold the older turtle's gaze. An audible gulp was heard before the smaller turtle finally mustered up enough courage to speak. "Uh...its jus'..." he trailed off, his voice laden with uncertainty. The silence stretched farther and farther until finally the tension snapped with a small sniffle followed by the hitched-breath of a quickly crumbling turtle.

A sudden need of motion washed over the red-banded turtle as he stood from the kitchen chair. _Tea,_ he thought, _that always helps him when he gets like this._

Years of comforting his most imaginative brother allowed Raph a deeper understanding as to how to treat his youngest brother. Grudgingly, Raph's mind traveled three years back to a rather dark time in the turtles' past. The images appearing in painful flashes as feelings and memories combined into a swirling whirl-pool of shattered despair. His hazel eyes slammed tightly shut as his he summoned every ounce of will-power to slam the flood-gates of his despondent anguish firmly sealed, buried safely beneath the comforting pulse of unadulterated fury.

The shrill screech of the teapot elicited an animated jump from both turtles. Quickly massaging his eyes with both hands, Raph grabbed two of their largest mugs as he poured each of them a generous amount of the soothing liquid.

The mug was gently placed in front of his little brother, a small thud amongst the static nothingness that engulfed the room. A small shuffling sound followed until finally Raphael's voice shattered the morose silence, the closeness of this startling the downtrodden turtle; his head snapping up to meet the amber gaze of his older brother.

"Mike. I wan' you to listen closely, capiche?"

A subtle nod.

"When have we evah let ya down?"

His face contorted into confusion as he broke the level gaze of his steadfast brother.

"N-never." He answered shakily.

"I didn't quite hear that, when have we evah let ya down?"

"Never, Raph."

"Exactly. You're not alone, Mike. You've got all of us here backin' ya up. Leo, Don, Casey, April- everyone, Mike. And we won't give up on ya. We've stuck with ya for this long, it'd be damn stupid to leave ya hangin' now. You got that, Michelangelo?"

There was brief lull in his response- a small sniffle interrupting the sudden silence quickly followed by a sincere, "Yeah, Raph. Thanks."

"I mean it, Mike. Whatever ya need, jus' ask."

A few tender ticks of a clock floated past as the moment's meaning sank. After a quiet sip of his tea, Raph chuckled to himself, the deep vibrato reverberating throughout the kitchen further coating the night's proceedings in a warm, caramel coating.

A broad and curious smirk grew upon Michelangelo's face as his interest was instantly piqued. Michelangelo placed his chin atop his right arm, his left nub barely resting atop the table, as he asked, "Care to share with the class, Raphie-boy?"

A reminiscent smile adorned Raph's face, the expression a warm contrast from the scowl typical of the temperamental turtle.

"Have I ever tol' you the story 'bout Casey gettin' the snot handed to him by an ol' blind lady?"

"No, actually, I think I'd remember that one."

"Well, it all started when April tol' Case to pick up a jar of peanut butter..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please comment- I’m going stir crazy


End file.
